


Of the Unforgiven and Unforgotten

by fluorescentflipflops



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: An insane mother in law, Aristocracy, Complicated Relationships, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Judgemental bitches, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prejudice, Rebirth, Self-Discovery, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21924241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorescentflipflops/pseuds/fluorescentflipflops
Summary: Alma knew what he had done.But she couldn’t find the desire to renounce her marriage if she tried.Even when the glares of the residents of Tirion felt as though they were burning a hole in her back.....Maglor’s wife, Alma, was aware of her husband’s deeds after her death at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. She knows that she will face the consequences of his actions, but she will not desert him. Not now.However, Alma will soon come to realise that, when it comes to the Sons of Feanor, forgiving and forgetting are entirely different things.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros & Original Female Character, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Wife, Maglor | Makalaurë/Original Female Character(s), Nerdanel & Maglor’s Wife
Comments: 37
Kudos: 87





	1. Returning....Home?

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely non-profit fanwork.

Alma knew what he had done.

She knew about her husband’s deeds after her death at the battle now referred to as the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

Yet, despite knowing that what she had heard was true, that Maglor and his brothers had slaughtered their own kind twice since her death, she could not bring herself to renounce her love for him.

Even when the scathing looks of the residents of Tirion felt as though they were burning a hole I her back.

Alma had been reborn a millennia into the Second Age. For the entirety of the time she spent in Beleriand, she had longed to come home to Tirion. To watch people milling around the colourful markets, to hear laughter and song echo through the streets and watch children playing, their parents safe in the knowledge that the worst that could happen to them was a scraped knee. But the Tirion she found was very different to the one she longed for. Instead of busy bustling shops filled with glittering jewels or delicious foods, on every street there were shops that were left without anybody to occupy them after the Darkening. Their owners had all left to fight across the Sea, and were yet, if ever, to return. Instead of friendly rivalry between different districts in the city, there was fierce distrust between former subjects of the Houses of Fëanor and those of his brothers. Finarfin now sat on the throne, the youngest child of Finwe who was never supposed to hold that position, and Alma believed that was truly beginning to show with every day of inaction on the Noldor’s mistrust of each other that passed.

However, there was one thing that Alma missed most about Tirion. And that thing was Maglor.

Everywhere she went she seen flashes of them together, young and carefree, before the Oath, before the Kinslayings, before his father’s death and Maedhros’ captivity. There was the little restaurant where they had spent countless evenings laughing and simply talking to one another, and the elegant townhouse where her husband and Maedhros lived during Maglor’s bachelorhood. Down the road from Maglor’s old home was his marital one, where he and Alma had lived together in their short lived time as a married couple in Valinor. This was were she decided to go first, now that she was free from the Halls of Mandos.

She was upset, but not entirely surprised, by what greeted her.

The beautiful yellow walls where covered in stains and blotches, probably due to angry elves taking their fury with Maglor and his brothers out on her house. The windows were boarded up, (and probably broken,) the garden was covered in debris and the door was beaten off its hinges.

Alma wasn’t brave enough to go inside, as she knew it would only be worse.

Instead she decided to make her way to one of the few places she may yet be accepted. She wondered, but could not bring herself to worry, about how she would be received here. If worst came to worst, she would seek accommodation with one of her husband or Maedhros’ followers, or return to the forges of Aulë, where she had spent her youth. She had heard that he was taking in stray Fëanorians anyway, so she knew she would have a place there.

As she made her way to her destination, she could feel the surrounding elves glaring at her. This was an area more commonly associated with Finarfin’s people, after all. Alma did not need to put much thought into what they were saying as she passed by.

 _Imagine having the nerve to return, knowing what her husband did,_  
_She should never have been set free among us,_  
_Look at her, proud as ever. Has she no shame?_  
_They deserve whatever hardships befalls them,_  
_Apparently her husband still lives. Coward, won’t return to face judgement,_  
_Who does she think she is?_ ,  
**_Murderer,_**  
**_Traitor,_**  
**_Whore,_**  
**_Kinslayer._**

They were wrong though. Alma was ashamed, angry and upset. She had been affected by the travesty that was the First Age just as much as them. Maglor, her beloved husband, had always been melancholic by nature, but was a mere shadow of his colourful self by the time she died, and Maedhros, a lifelong friend, was permanently scarred, physically and mentally after his captivity in Angband. Many of her friends and comrades had died fighting her father-in-law’s war and those who survived were greatly changed. Alma also knew that she was no longer the elleth she once knew so well. Yes, her reflection appeared the same on first glance, but Alma sensed a change deep within herself. Her eyes were older and sadder, her soul heavier and more weary and her life changed irreversibly.

By the time Alma managed to drag herself from her thoughts, she had reached her destination.

Fëanor and Nerdanel’s mansion loomed over her, casting a huge shadow onto the ground and chilling her to the bone. It was strange to see a place that had once been so full of life, so full of sons, so eerily quiet. But Alma knew that one elf still resided here. And she was determined to see her, no matter how notoriously reclusive she had become. Alma marched up to the door and knocked firmly. Another, more unfamiliar visitor, may be tempted to use the beautiful doorbell created by Fëanor , but Alma know Nerdanel well enough to be aware of the fact that using the doorbell (which Fëanor and her had always associated with snotty courtiers coming to invite them to afternoon tea. They only accepted the invitation once, and scandalised Tirion’s elite by showing up dressed in their filthy work clothes, which consisted of only trousers and a filthy apron in Feanor’s case, and brought a very strong alcoholic beverage along with them.) was more likely to deter Nerdanel from answering. 

It seemed that she still knew how to approach her rather fearsome mother-in-law, for only a minute or two later she heard footsteps approaching the door. It swung open to reveal as expected, Nerdanel.

She was truly just as Alma remembered her. Small, big-boned and muscular, with a sharp jaw and angular features. Her red hair was piled messily on top of her head, and her green eyes filled with shock upon seeing Alma. However, this was Nerdanel, so instead of embracing her daughter-in-law, she simply pulled the door open further, and gestured into the house with her hammer and chisel.

“I suppose I’ve got to let you in, Alma. After all, you’re married to my son and probably homeless.”


	2. Ghosts of the past

Nerdanel truly hadn’t changed, Alma thought as she watched her storm around the kitchen like a whirlwind. Her mother-in-law had pulled her into the house, and sat her down at the large oak table in the kitchen. While Nerdanel made her what was probably going to be the worst cup of coffee she’s had in over a thousand years, Alma took the opportunity to stare at the unfamiliar familiar room. 

It, like it’s soul occupant, hadn’t really changed. In fact, it felt eerie just how similar this room, and every other space Alma had seen in the house, was to its glory days before the Darkening. In Alma’s eyes, it seemed that Nerdanel was trying to keep her home the same as it always was, so that when, or if, her boys returned, they could slide effortlessly back into the lives they once led, the lives Alma knew they would have changed too drastically to lead once more.

“So,” Nerdanel said, plonking a cup of coffee down on the table, “Have you come to tell me that you’re so sorry, but that you simply cannot live with the shame of being Makalaurë’s anymore? Or do you just want money?”

Alma stared at her in shock.

“Well? Do I have another Neuriel on my hands or not?”

“Neuriel renounced Curufinwë?” Alma whispered.

“Without hesitation,” Nerdanel said, as if discussing the weather, not the end of her son’s marriage, “I don’t blame her, really. I know how hard it must have been, especially when she doesn’t know if Tyelpe is dead or alive.”

“He was alive when I… you know…” Alma said hesitantly, sipping her disgusting coffee.

“Died?” Nerdanel supplied.

“Yes. When I died.” Alma replied. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she had been killed. It just felt wrong.

“Whatever news you have is old, Alma,” her companion said sadly, “It takes years for any big news to reach us here.”

Alma suddenly had a horrible thought.

“Nerdanel,” she began, “You do know about what’s happened to your sons, don’t you?”

She grimaced. “Unfortunately. Took a while, though. I didn’t hear about any of their deaths until bloody Findaráto had the decency to tell me.”

Alma reached out towards Nerdanel and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was awkward, as they had never been very close, so Nerdanel shrugged her off after enduring a few seconds compassion. She herself couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be the last one to hear about the deaths of your own children, even if she never had any of her own.

  
“Is there any news of Makalaurë?” She asked quietly.

“None,” Nerdanel replied, “He seems determined to torture himself for eternity.”

“Do you think he realises he’s torturing us too?” Alma said, more to herself than her mother-in-law.

“No.” Nerdanel scoffed, “He’s male. Selfishness is in their nature.”

They sat in silence for what could have been mere seconds, an hour, or a year, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Then,

“Just tell me why you’re here, Alma. Just tell me now.”

Alma looked, truly looked, at her companion for the first time. Nerdanel’s eyes were heavy and sad, framed by dark circles. Her whole being radiated exhaustion and disappointment. However, underneath it all was a tiny, yet familiar, spark. A spark that, with one sentence, Alma could diminish further.

“First of all,” she said, “ I have no intention of breaking off my marriage with your son. I am, I will not deny it, ashamed of his actions, but, for some untold reason, I’m still in love with Makalaurë. And I will stand by him, whether he returns to face judgement or not. Considering everything I’ve just said, the fact that my house is in ruins and that I’d like to remain in Tirion for a while yet, I thought you might put me up for the foreseeable future, Nerdanel.”

Nerdanel smirked wickedly at her.

“When did you grow a spine, Alma?”

“I think that I always had one,” Alma replied, “It’s just got stronger over time.” 

….

It was strange, Alma thought, sleeping in Makalaurë’s childhood room. So strange, that she was beginning to consider moving to a different one entirely. Nerdanel had led her here on her arrival, not even considering the fact that she might have wanted to sleep somewhere else. But, why would she? Maglor was her husband, this was his room. It seemed perfectly logical.

But nothing in Alma’s life had been perfectly logical for a very long time.

While one might expect staying in a room that was just so… so Maglor, might have been comforting, Alma was beginning to find it suffocating. Everywhere she turned he was there. It was his first harp perched elegantly in the corner of the room, right by the window, as it always was. It seemed to be waiting for its owner to return and start playing at any moment, unaware of the monumental changes that had taken place. The clothes he had always stored in his parents’ house were still in the wardrobe, his clean musky scent lingering even after all these years. The desk was still covered in compositions, and old drawings and portraits littered the walls.

One in particular caught her attention.

It was a small, slightly messy drawing, that still sat in the little gold frame Maglor had placed it in millennia ago. She knew that Fingon had drawn it, and that it had been a gift for Maedhros, which he had passed onto Maglor because he thought that the drawing was ‘unflattering’. Looking back now, Alma realised just how ridiculous this was, and struggled to connect the vain, naïve young price with the scarred, cold warlord he had become. It was, she thought, quite extraordinary how such a small thing could evoke so many memories.

The drawing was of her Maglor and Maedhros shortly after her and Maglor began courting. The three of them were sitting on the battered chaise lounge in her husband and Maedhros’ house. It was the night that she had, by complete accident, found out about Maedhros and Fingon’s relationship and how she ended up befriending Maglor’s older brother. She and Maglor (who, being Maglor, already knew) had unknowingly walked in on a rather… intimate moment, and Alma had then spent the rest of the night reassuring Maedhros that she would’nt tell his father, while their respective lovers just watched the scene unfolding before them in vague amusement. It wasn’t until Maedhros was several glasses into the bottles of wine Fingon had brought, that he truly began to relax, thus granting Fingon the opportunity to draw ,(despite being quite drunk himself,) the little picture.

Alma set it down with a sad sigh. She had been distraught when she had witnessed Fingon’s death mere minutes before her own, and even more so when she had heard about the circumstances in which Maedhros had died. She couldn’t help but wonder if Fingon had ever told anyone, outside of the trusted few who already knew, about him and Maedhros. It was, in Alma’s opinion, a miracle that the entire population didn’t already know, as neither of them were particularly subtle. Walking into Angband armed with only a harp must have raised some eyebrows, surely?

She chuckled to herself as she flopped down onto the bed, trying to make herself comfortable. She was wearing Neuriel’s old nightgown, as she couldn’t bear wearing anything that belonged to Maglor or one of his brothers, and she didn’t want to sleep I her clothes.

She’d have to find Fingon, she decided. Perhaps they could bond over being in love with infamous Kinslayers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m worried this chapter is extremely boring, but I hope to make stuff less dull and melancholy after this. For a while, at least.   
> Any feedback is beyond welcome.


	3. A Familiar, but Friendly Face

“So, he lives in their old house?” 

Alma had decided to enquire about Fingon the next morning when she was having breakfast with Nerdanel. Apparently Fingon had been released from the Halls of Mandos only a few decades after his death.

“He came ‘round to apologise for chopping Maitimo’s hand off,” Nerdanel had said, attacking her toast with a butter knife, “I don’t know why. Apologising was hardly going to cause it to grow back, was it?”

However, due to Nerdanel’s rather reclusive nature, she wasn’t exactly a wealth of information when it came to her husband’s relatives, so the information Alma received about Fingon was rather limited. According to Nerdanel, Fingon did his duties as a Prince of the Noldor, lived in Maedhros and Maglor’s old bachelor pad (much to his father’s annoyance), and was generally the same as he always was, just with a bit more melancholic wine drinking.

“Why don’t you actually visit him instead of interrogating me? You clearly want to see him.” Nerdanel said.

“I think I might,” said Alma, “But I’ll need to buy new clothes first. I’ve only got what I was supplied with after leaving the Halls, and what few of my belongings I left here.”

“He can help you with that, Eru knows he was always vain. Perhaps he’d buy them too.”

“Nerdanel!” 

“What?”

Alma buried her head in her hands.

  
….

  
Alma stood outside Fingon’s house. Despite also belonging to the Sons of Fëanor once upon a time, it was in much better shape than hers. The white walls were sparkling and the garden perfectly tended, despite Fingon despising any type of gardening and doing practically anything to avoid it. The house felt more… homely, than when she was last here, which was a surprise, making her wonder if somebody else entirely lived here, as Fingon was always chaos personified and thus not particularly interested in home making or achieveing domestic bliss. 

She took a deep breath and approached the doorstep. The door was painted emerald green and had a large, intricate gold knocker. It used to be in the shape of the Star of Fëanor, but that was probably long gone. Alma tried to gather herself, before raising a shaky hand to knock firmly on the door.

“I’m not in the mood to be lectured, Atar!” Said a very familiar voice.

Alma couldn’t bring herself to say that she was not, in fact, Fingolfin.

“Are you still there?”

She couldn’t reply to that either. 

“Honestly, who _is_ it?”

Alma’s heart nearly stopped when she heard footsteps stumbling down the hall, and a key being inserted into the lock. 

“Atar, if that’s you I….” Fingon trailed off mid sentence when he seen that Alma was not, in fact, his Atar.

“Alma?” He whispered, reaching out for her.

“Finno,” she gasped, letting him hold her face in his hands.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Fingon said.

“The feeling was mutual,” Alma replied.

Fingon stared at her for a moment longer, before pulling her into a rib-crushing embrace and spinning around, nearly falling flat on his face in the process.

It was the closest thing to a homecoming Alma had had.

His dark hair was still beautifully braided, his pale complexion entirely clear of blemishes and his eyes the same metallic grey as her husband’s. But Fingon, like herself, seemed older and she was secretly relived that it wasn’t just her and Nerdanel that had changed. He still smelled of mint, but instead of the faint undertone of Maedhros that seemed to permanently hang over him, even in Beleriand, there was a slight smell of parchment and traces of wine, or perhaps just grapes. He always did like grapes.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” He cried as they pulled apart, “I heard rumours that you were back of course , you know what the elves here are like. They have so little to bother them, I’d quite forgotten how frustrating it all was.”

Whilst he was talking, Alma had recognised the now familiar feeling of being watched. As Fingon prattled on, she rose onto the tips of her toes to look over her friend’s shoulder.

“Fingon,” she whispered urgently, ignoring how offended he seemed at being interrupted, “We have an audience.”

Fingon turned abruptly around and stared at the elves watching. He sighed, and pulled Alma into the house, clearly seeing no other alternative to try and avoid becoming the latest victim of Tirion’s notorious rumour mills.

“I hate this.” He said, his voice cracking slightly, “The way they all talk about you, about Nelyo.”

“I know,” Alma replied, “It’s hard for everyone who loved them. Any of them.”

There was no need to question who _they_ were. 

Fingon turned to her, smiling a little too brightly, and she could see the hurt in his eyes. It felt strange looking into the large grey orbs, as they were so similar, (if a little less melancholy and all-knowing, even now), to Maglor’s.

“Tea? Or how ‘bout something stronger?” He inquired.

Alma raised her eyebrows, it seemed Nerdanel wasn’t wrong about the melancholic wine drinking after all.

“We can have the something stronger after you take me shopping.”

“Since when would I go shopping with you?” He teased, folding his arms playfully.

“Since you were very rude to me, and need to do the required penance.” She replied, pulling at one of his braids.

“What could I have possibly done to offend you, Alma?”

“You mistook me for _your father_ , of all people.”

Fingon laughed, loudly. It was the happiest sound Alma had heard in years, and gave her some hope that maybe, just maybe, she would be alright.


	4. Ugly words and even uglier gowns

“How about this one?” Fingon said, brandishing a hideous green gown in Alma’s face.

“It looks like misshapen lime. So no.” She replied.

“Your beyond hard to please, Alma.”

Alma rolled her eyes. Fingon tossed the gown back onto the rail and flopped down on the plush couch that sat smugly in the middle of the dressmakers they had ended up in. Alma had been disappointed to find that her favourite shop hadn’t been reopened after the Noldor had crossed the Sea, but Fingon had recommended this rather grand shop that his mother was apparently fond of. Despite always being rather fond of Anairë, she did not share her elegant sense of dress and was beginning to wish she had been taken to Aredhel’s tailor instead. They had been led in by a rather meek little apprentice who had promptly scarpered when she realised that it was Lady Alma, wife of the murderous kinslayer she had probably been told scary stories about as an elfling, instead of Fingon’s new lady love that was accompanying him.

“I do believe that young elleth thought we were… _more_ than friends when we came in, Finno,” she said carefully.

Fingon snorted and got up from his perch to start rummaging through the rails of dresses again.

“Do people here still not know about you and Nelyo?” Alma said, glaring at the back of Fingon’s head.

“Is this one any better?” Fingon said, with far too much cheer, as he removed a yellow monstrosity from the nearest rail.

“Does anyone know about you and Nelyo?” Alma said a little more forcefully.

Fingon remained silent.

This. This was why Alma hated Fingon sometimes. Despite claiming to care about her brother-in-law, Fingon always seemed to dodge the bullet of telling anyone, even his closet family, about the nature of his relationship with Maedhros. All of Maedhros’ brothers, friends and probably around half of Himring’s population had guessed, leaving him waiting for Fingon to open up to his own nearest and dearest. 

He never did.

Alma and Maglor had spent countless evenings with Maedhros after Fingon had not been among Fingolfin’s visiting entourage yet again, or when he had replied to Nelyo’s long, beautiful letters with short, messy scribbles on ripped pieces of parchment. That one particularly annoyed Alma, as she transcribed most of Maedhros’ private correspondence and wasn’t happy about hours of work going unappreciated. Finno was the best in the world, but he could be just as, if not more, infuriating than any of Maglor’s brothers, even Caranthir with his accursed temper.

“I honestly can’t believe you sometimes, Fingon. He poured his heart out in front of you when Ereinion was born, and you promised him all of Arda when it was all over. I know that you couldn’t help breaking that promise, but you could at least stand by him when he’s not here to defend himself.” She spat, furious.

“I thought you of all people would understand how hard it is to stand by someone like _Maitimo_!” Fingon exclaimed, “I have a hard enough time convincing my parents, my brothers, my sister, my cousins and everybody else within a hundred miles that I’m alright! Adding my secret love affair that’s spanned millennia into the mix may just make everything a tiny bit more complicated.”

Alma was furious. 

“I know that it’s hard! I know better than anyone just how hard being married to one of them is. But, surely if your family are so worried about you it would help to tell them about your feelings for Nelyo? Maybe they’d be able to support you, especially when he is released from the Halls.”

“I’m aware of that. It just seems impossible, you know? After keeping it secret for so long, to just… tell everyone.” He whispered.

He was, Alma thought, amazing at making you forgive him. No wonder he got away with everything when he was a child.

“How about we eat?” She said, immediately feeling like Celegorm (he was a true bottomless pit), when she said it.

“What about your dresses?” He said softly.

Alma looked around the room and quickly grabbed the three least wish-washy gowns she could see.

“These aren’t too bad?” 

Fingon stared critically at them, but eventually smiled.

“Maglor once told me he thought you would look good if you wore a sack. And those dresses aren’t _quite_ as bad as a sack, so I’m sure you’ll look beautiful.”

“We’re still going to talk about our problems, no matter how well you behave.” 


	5. Of wanted and unwanted revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still alive!

Alma looked forlornly at the elves milling past her as she sat opposite Fingon at the small rickety table in the café they had chosen to eat in. When Alma had left Valinor, she had loved Tirion, its innovative architecture and equally innovative inhabitants. But now, everything seemed duller. Elves dressed more conservatively than they had since she was a little girl, people didn’t trust each other, and two thirds of the city’s population was under the rule of a king they never followed in the first place, all making for a horrible atmosphere.

She sighed, turning to face Fingon once more. He had what must have been his fifth glass of wine in his hand (even though it was just past four o’clock) and was busy examining his cuticles. 

“So,” Alma began, “How’s your family?”

Fingon looked incredulously at her.

“You want to hear about them?” 

“Why not? Have you forgotten I married your cousin?”

“Half-cousin.”

“You sound like Fëanor.”

Several elves turned to stare at her when she uttered her infamous father-in-law’s name. Well, she thought wryly, some things never change.

Fingon glared at her. 

“Well,” he said, “My father spends his days influencing every single decision Uncle Finarfin makes and telling me off for ‘not performing my duties as a prince well enough’, my mother is heartbroken because we’re not one big happy family anymore-“

Alma cut him off, by asking if they were ever one big happy family, and received a swat on the arm for her troubles.

Composing himself, Fingon continued,

“Anyway, Aredhel spends half her time breaking men’s hearts, and the other attempting to persuade her son to quit his reclusive lifestyle and live with her in my father’s house or with me, of all people.”

“Maeglin was reborn?” She asked, surprised.

“Yes. Did you not hear?” Fingon said, “ It was an even bigger scandal than you and Neuriel’s return put together, which really is saying something. No offence, Alma. And as for Turgon…..”

But Alma was no longer listening. She couldn’t stop thinking about how Maeglin had returned from the Halls of Mandos. She knew that he had caused the full of Gondolin, simply because of a frankly unhealthy obsession with his cousin, the beautiful, but, in Alma’s opinion, pompous and spoiled little snob, Idril. To be fair to Turgon’s daughter, Alma had only known her for a brief time, when her husband and herself were waiting in Fingolfin’s encampment on Lake Mithrim for Maedhros to be stable enough to move back to their own side of the lake. Two months had, nonetheless, never been longer, and it was only made worse by the blonde little girl who ran around with no shoes on demanding her uncle Fingon come and play tag with her, despite the fact that her uncle was sitting at the bedside of the sickest patient elven healers had ever seen and had just returned from a rather terrifying one man mission into Angband itself. Alma really couldn’t see the point in destroying an entire settlement for her, but who knows, maybe she had improved as she got older. She couldn’t see it though. That, however, was not what had made Alma so interested in Maeglin’s release back into civilisation. No, the real reason lay, as it nearly always did, with the Sons of Fëanor.

Surely, if Maeglin who had committed deeds just as foul as her husband and his brothers, without an all-consuming Oath hanging over him, was reborn, her brothers-in-law could be too? It was a possibility Alma had never even dared to consider, not even for little Telvo, who had died before even setting foot on Beleriand’s soil. How could they be reborn, when, even if they were released, they would surely be stoned to death by an angry mob within a fortnight? But Maeglin had managed it. Yes, from what Fingon had told her, he seemed to live the life of a recluse, but she couldn’t imagine any of her brothers wanting to socialise with Tirion’s elite anyway, so a life of solitude certainly wouldn’t be a problem. The main question was ‘Was it possible?’

“Fingon,” she said interrupting his angry tangent about Eru knows what, “How long has it been since Maeglin was reborn?”

“You know what, darling,” he said, slurring his words slightly, “I haven’t the foggiest.”

Alma groaned. There was no way she was going to get a lick of sense out of Fingon now that he was well on his way past being tipsy and hurtling full speed towards being drunk, so she decided to put the matter of Maeglin to bed for the day, along with all the other serious things she had planned to discuss with him, such as the state of Maglor’s followers who had come back to Tirion, how many people wanted her dead and, most importantly, Maedhros. Alma was honestly beginning to believe that Fingon had gotten so drunk just to avoid the topic of his lover, and his rather selfish refusal to acknowledge their relationship to even his closest family.

She was preparing to drag Fingon home when a bright voice came booming across the square.

“Uncle Fingon! Is that you?”

Alma whirled around, to see a rather tall ellon with a mane of blonde hair that rivalled Finrod’s and a huge dopey smile on his face, with a tiny whisp of a woman with dark hair hanging onto his arm approaching. They looked familiar to Alma, but she didn’t know how.

Fingon on the other hand, seemed to sober up dramatically on seeing the couple approaching.

“Ah! Hello…” he said quickly, “I’d love to stay and chat, but we were just leaving,”

He grabbed Alma’s wrist and began attempting to pull her away.

“I hope we haven’t offended you in any way, Fingon,” was the blonde elf’s sincere response, but Alma wasn’t interested in what he had to say to him. Because his wife, who gave Alma an almost painful sense of amnesia, was staring at her in unconcealed disgust.

“-Not at all,” Fingon replied, “But really Ëarendil, we must go…”

Ëarendil. The name hit her like a brick wall. His wife, Elwing, must have noticed Alma’s horror, because she then said,

“Your husband stole my children.”

That. That was the one thing Alma hated hearing about. How Maglor had ended up essentially kidnapping two little boys. She knew he treated them well, but it hurt more than anything else that most people chose to believe that the Peredhel twins had only said that, that Maedhros had beaten them, or Maglor had starved them. That they treated them like animals.

Alma didn’t have anytime to dwell on this though, because Elwing had raised her hand and slapped her, hard, across the face.


	6. Of Tears, Regrets and Smelly Salves

Alma stared at the fading red mark on her cheek. It had been over two hours since Elwing had hit her and it was only know beginning to truly fade away. 

After the incident itself, Elwing had stormed off in a fit of rage, leaving Alma, Fingon and Ëarendil standing there in shock. The entire square had been silent for a few moments, nobody entirely sure what to do. After all, it was’t everyday that a princess thumped another elf across the face. Although, there had been, much to Alma’s surprise, a few sympathetic looks, mainly from the faces of elves she recognised as followers of Maglor or his brothers. It was strange seeing them now, preparing to shut up shop after another largely uneventful day working in Tirion’s Fëanorian Quarter, when for so many years she had known them as archers, healers or cooks, who were vital in keeping the fortresses her family held running. She had seen several faces she knew well over the course of her day out with Fingon, including a young maid, Lótea, who had served Maedhros from the founding of Himring. She had still been alive when Alma had died, but that, despite how odd it felt, was a long time ago, and anything could have happened to her in that time. Alma had wanted to approach her, but on seeing her, Fingon had promptly dragged them over to a different shop, as far away from her as he could get.

They had, if Alma remembered rightly, never got along. Lótea was fiercely protective of her Lord Maedhros, and Fingon was of the opinion that she should have just kept her pointy little nose out of their business. She would, she decided, go looking for her as soon as she could.

Alma smiled to herself, but was dragged from her thoughts by Nerdanel bursting into her room, uninvited as usual.

“Here,” she said, thrusting a small jar into her hand, “it’s a salve my father used. I originally thought it only worked for burns, but it also turned out to be very useful for cuts and bruises.”

“Thanks,” Alma replied, lifting the lid to smell the contents. It stank, though she couldn’t say that surprised her. She couldn’t imagine Mahtan being overly bothered by the smell of a healing salve.

“I can’t believe that the bitch just bopped you in the face,”Nerdanel said.

“Surely you shouldn’t be referring to her as ‘the bitch’,Nerdanel.”

“You would think that,” she said, “But once someone spits on you the moment they lay eyes on you, it’s rather hard to think well of them.”

“Well, after everything Nelyo and Kano did to her-“

Nerdanel cut her off. “Alma, you do realise that if we apologised to every single person my sons wronged, and walked on eggshells around them, we would get nothing done.”

“But-“

“No. No buts. When, or more likely if,” Nerdanel sighed, “my boys come back, they’ll have to do all the apologising and grovelling themselves and stand on their own two feet.”

Refusing to be beaten, Alma said, “Ëarendil wasn’t that bad. He actually apologised to me before he went after Elwing.”

“He’s just as bad for letting her do it to people. If my husband did that to a woman because he was pissy with her husband, I’d box him ‘round the head.”

She probably would, too.

“I just didn’t think it would be this hard.” Alma said softly.

“What?” Nerdanel said.

“Coming back. I thought everyone would just be terrified of me, and avoid me at all costs. I wasn’t expecting a slap in the face the first time I went out in public.” She whispered, awaiting the tears that never came.

Alma had expected to be an emotional wreck when she was reborn. She had always been an emotional person, but had been forced to toughen up during the First Age, when she had learned that crying wasn’t going to fix the shattered bones and flesh wounds her people suffered. She still vividly remembered when Fëanor died, the huge festering burns caused by the balrog that covered his body, and how she had struggled not to vomit, never mind cry, at the sight of him. Alma had stood with her husband during Fëanor’s last moments, sobbing, because even though she had grown to hate him more than she thought possible after the death of little Telufinwë, he was still Maglor’s father, the man who had welcomed her with open arms when she married his son, even though he had been driven mad by those accursed gems and dragged them all here, to this unknown land of danger and death. It seemed, she thought wryly, that all she had done in those awful first years in Beleriand was cry and scream. She cried when the ships were burned, screamed with Amras when they realised his town was dead, sobbed harsh, angry tears when Fëanor took his last breath, secretly glad that a madman would no longer be the High King. She cried even harder when Maedhros was captured, and was about to cry when Fingon rescued him, but she came to a realisation then, as she stared down at what had once been her brother-in-law, but was now a vaguely elven form that resembled a corpse more than an actual living being. Alma had realised then, that her tears would do no good. Not for Nelyo, not for Kano, not for herself. That she needed to, as Nerdanel had told her once back in Valinor, grow a spine.

So she did. She mastered the art of stoicism, and kept her now carefully constructed mask in place when surrounded by those she didn’t fully trust. Because Alma now knew that the worst thing she could now be was an open book. That if she wanted to survive here, she had to be stronger than she had ever thought she could be. The elleth who wept in the face of hardship had been left behind on Lake Mithrim. Alma had reinvented herself, not enough to become unrecognisable, but enough to survive. And after all, what more could one hope to do in Beleriand?

But now, as she sat in Maglor’s old room, surrounded by his things, after being slapped in the face for a deed she wasn’t even alive to see done, all she wanted to do was cry. And she couldn’t. Alma had believed that once she was back in Valinor she would, in a way, become her old self again. She thought that once she had returned home, the tears would flow and she could bring herself to grieve for what she had lost, but that was, apparently too much to ask. Because now she sat in a room that wasn’t hers, even though it was, in an unknown house that had once been her second home in a city she had been dreaming of, but that was turning out to be a nightmare. 

And, to top it all off, she had Elwing’s handprint emblazoned on her fucking face.

When she looked up, Nerdanel was staring at her like she was an exotic bird on display in a gilded cage.

“So,” Nerdanel said, “Aside from getting slapped in the face, how was your day?”

“Surprisingly boring, to be honest.” 

“I was under the impression that there was never supposed to be a dull moment with Fingon,” Nerdanel said, leaning Maglor’s ornate writing chair back on two legs, making Alma have to fight the urge to tell her she was going to break it.

“He’s not the same, Nerdanel, none of us are.”

Nerdanel hummed in agreement.

Alma thought about what to say next. She was desperate to know if Nerdanel was aware of the fact that Fingon was more than just Nelyo’s best friend, but thought it unlikely that Fingon would have told her if he hadn’t even told his own family. However, she decided that, if she was going to live under the same roof as Nerdanel, she was going to have to grow used to being brutally honest, as Nerdanel didn’t engage in any other type of speech.

“Did you,” Alma ventured, “know about the nature of Nelyo’s relationship with Fingon?”

For one horrible moment, Nerdanel looked confused, but then clarity bloomed on her face.

“Are you asking me if I knew my son was fucking Fingon?”

Alma groaned. She should never, ever have had to listen to that sentence come out of her mother-in-law’s mouth.

“Yes,” she said, “But I wasn’t asking for it to be phrased in that particular way.”

Nerdanel smiled evilly at her.

“I knew.” She then said solemnly, showing more emotion than Alma had seen since her return, “But I wasn’t told.”

“I don’t understand,” Alma replied. Had she seen them together? No, she couldn’t have. They were always so careful when they lived in Tirion.

“Alma,” she said, “Maitimo was my eldest son. He was older than Makalaurë by far, it was just him and me for so long. I know all my sons better than I know myself, but Maitimo most of all, he was my masterpiece, and more often than not, he was my friend and ally. Do you really think I didn’t notice? He hid it well, yes, but I was a different kettle of fish to the rest of Tirion. I always knew.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” Alma demanded.

“I was waiting for him to come to me. The same way Kano did when he met you, the same way Curvo did when he met Neuriel. But he didn’t. I realise now that he was probably worried that I would tell his father, but it still hurts like a bitch.” She said sadly, “You would know if you’d had kids, Alma, just how much it hurt. So I kept on waiting, desperate for him to confirm how much he trusted me, that he knew I would do anything for him, even leave his father if it came to it. But he didn’t, and I always wonder what I did wrong to make him value himself so little.”

Nerdanel stood now, and walked towards the window.

“I should have went with them, with Fëanor, across the sea. But I didn’t. And I regretted it for every miserable day since.”

Alma sat in shock. She hadn’t been prepared for Nerdanel to take her on, never mind show emotion. However, before she could say anything Nerdanel had turned around to face her again, her features clear of sadness once more.

“Come down to the kitchen once you’ve slapped some of that salve on your face, Alma, sitting moping isn’t doing either of us any good.”

Alma nodded and prepared to rub the foul smelling ointment on her face.

“Oh,” Nerdanel said over her shoulder, “I forgot to tell you that one of the main reasons I’m letting you stay here is because you can, if my memory serves me right, cook. So get your skinny arse down as soon as, because I’m starving.”


	7. Even the Servants Have Ears

It had been a week since the incident with Elwing, and Alma was yet to leave Nerdanel’s house.  
Being slapped across the face in public had been downright traumatic, but Alma had discovered that she really wasn’t suited to a recluse’s life in the same way her mother-in-law was.

Firstly, there was too many memories for Alma to handle within the house’s walls. It may have been a comfort to Nerdanel to be surrounded by objects that reminded her of her children, but for her, it was just a painful reminder of how far her husband and his brothers had fallen from the young elves that had roamed this elegant, beautiful house in all their brilliance, to the haunted shells they had become.

Secondly, after only a week, she was already struggling to find things to occupy herself with. Unlike Nerdanel, Alma didn’t have a craft as such. When she had lived in Tirion before the Darkening, Alma had floated from one party to the next, from one recital to another, always with others and thus never really learning anything worthwhile about herself, other than that she was amazing at small talk and could make conversation for hours and simultaneously say nothing of great importance and never have her voice be heard. Perhaps, she thought wryly, that was why she had fallen in love with Maglor, a man whose voice was so beautiful no matter what it was doing, that it could shut even her up. She still remembered how happy her father had been when she had began courting Maglor. He had always believed that Alma was suitable enough to get herself a good husband, for she was reasonably pretty and nowhere near as dim as many of the young elleth that paraded around Finwë’s court, but he had believed a son of Fëanor well beyond her reach. Now he was probably heartbroken she didn’t marry their stable boy instead. But here she was now, a disgraced princess hiding in her husband’s old house fashioning herself dresses out of Caranthir and Curufin’s glitzy robes. She had chosen to raid the wardrobe’s of those two in particular after she had realised that none of the clothes that belonged to her or Neuriel that had been left here were still in fashion, and the ones she had bought with Fingon weren’t much better. Therefore, the old bedroom cupboards of Caranthir and Curufin were demolished in her hunt for material to make herself somewhat more fashionable dresses before she left the house to actually buy herself some clothes without Fingon distracting her. She had swiped the robes that had once belonged to Caranthir because he had always worn cloths made with the most exquisite fabric in every shade imaginable except, much to Fëanor’s annoyance, red or anything resembling it, as it clashed with his complexion. Curufin she had chosen for one reason only. She felt bad stealing all of Caranthir’s clothes, and he was the best option out of the rest of the house’s former inhabitants.

But the final, and most pressing reason, that was forcing Alma out of her seclusion was Nerdanel. Her companion had done nothing but tell her to ‘Get her arse in gear’, since the day after she received her inelegant slap to the face, and she was beginning to get on Alma’s nerves. Her mother-in-law was clearly making use of having company, and Alma was growing sick of being summoned to her workshop to admire her latest sculpture or painting, or, Eru forbid, be asked to help. The thing that finally made Alma’s mind up about rejoining society however, was when the model for Nerdanel’s latest sculpture, a very attractive and very nude ellon, casually wandered into the kitchen looking for a lavatory and she wasn’t even surprised.

She knew then that she could not allow herself to end up as insane as Nerdanel. Under no circumstances would a naked man that wasn’t her husband be allowed to wander around the kitchen. Even if he was a model.

So, here she was, a week later, pulling on one of the dresses that she had almost destroyed her hands whilst sewing to make, preparing to make her hopefully less dramatic second appearance Ito society.

“Nerdanel!”she shouted, “I’m heading out now.”

“Wonders never cease!” Nerdanel roared back.

Alma sighed and was about to shut the door when Nerdanel cried,

“Alma, we need bread and milk. And alcohol. No matter what you do _don’t_ _forget_ the alcohol.”

“And you say Fingon has a problem,” Alma muttered, before finally stepping outside.

A few hours later, Alma was feeling slightly more satisfied with her situation. She had visited several dressmakers within the Fëanorion quarter, and had commissioned several outfits and bought several more off the rail. She had managed to buy bread, milk and alcohol, which would please Nerdanel, and was trying to decide whether to visit Fingon or not when a familiar voice emerged from the doorway of one of the grand townhouses on her left.

‘Lady Alma. Long time no see.” 

Alma spun round to find herself face to face with Lótea, who had, for many years, been in service in Maedhros’ fortress at Himring, and eventually a direct servant to Fëanor’s eldest son. She had, Alma suspected, known more than she ever let on due to her closeness to Maedhros, but Alma wasn’t going to let that put her off.

“It certainly has been a long time, Lótea,” Alma replied, trying to remember how she would have spoken to Lótea before her death, “But I’m glad to see you again.”

Lótea smiled. “We, as in those who followed my Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor, were wondering when we would see you again, my lady.”

“Really?” Alma questioned, doubt entering her voice. She was never sure of how well she had been liked among her husband’s followers.

“Really,” Lótea replied. She seemed to think carefully for a moment before saying, “Would you like to join me on my walk home? I’ve heard you’re staying with Lady Nerdanel, and my home is on the way.”

“O-oh, why, yes,” Alma stuttered, wondering how sad her life had become for walking home with somebody to be a huge social commitment, “I’d love to.”

Lótea nodded and darted down the steps to join Alma on the pavement.

“So Lótea,” Alma began, having composed herself, “What’s happened to you since I saw you last?”

Lótea grimaced. 

“Well,” she began, “I died, just like you. I was killed in a skirmish with orcs when the remains of our people were making their way from Amon Ereb to join Finarfin and the host from Valinor during the War of Wrath. Being a chambermaid doesn’t exactly prepare one to face orcs on a regular basis.”

Alma winced. She knew that Lótea had almost certainly died, but hearing her describe it just made the whole thing seem terribly real. Lótea however, didn’t seem bothered by discussing her death, and continued on, oblivious to Alma’s discomfort.

“Once I was reborn, I sat and cluttered up the landscape in my brother’s house for a few years, but I eventually pulled myself together and got a job. I’m a maid in the house we just left back there,” she waved her hand in the general direction of the house where she had met Alma, “It belongs to one of the king’s advisors, who takes great pleasure in relaying all the news from the palace back to his wife, meaning I’m always in the loop.”

Alma’s heart sank, as she realised _just how much_ she, Maglor and Maedhros had probably said in front of Lótea, and just how much more she knew about her than Alma had originally assumed.

“Of course, he’s no Lord Maedhros, but he’s not as awful as some of the other lords in court, so I suppose I can’t complain too much,” Lótea said, “But it’s good to have you back, my lady. The elves who followed Lord Maedhros and his brothers are, by all accounts, happy to have one of our own back.”

Before Alma could thank her, Lótea had come to an abrupt stop outside a small, shabby little house, and turned to face Alma once more. Before Alma could say anything though, her companion had leaned in and began to whisper into her ear.

“No matter if our lords are hear or not, my lady, this city is still teeming with followers of Fëanor and his sons. You know where to find us if anyone gives you trouble again.”

Unsurprisingly, Alma did not find that particularly reassuring.

“Thank you, Lótea, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” 

Lótea looked thoughtfully at her, wrinkling her pointy nose.

“Everyone has heard about what happened with you and Elwing.” She said, “And I just wish for you to know that we are still here, and Tirion mightn’t be as different as you may think on first glance.”

Alma nodded, happy that Lótea and a secret underground force weren’t planning a fourth kinslaying.

“Well, come find me at some stage, Lady Alma. I’d love to talk to you again.”

“I assure you, I will,” Alma replied. 

Seemingly satisfied with her response, Alma’s new acquaintance turned and walked up the small path leading to her house, leaving Alma feeling less alone than she had since she had returned to Tirion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback or suggestions are more than welcome, I’m a bit of a disaster when it comes to updating, so I’ll take all the help I can get. Not much went down in this chapter, but hopefully things will improve from here.


	8. Houses and Homes

Alma walked back to Nerdanel’s house in a daze. What Lótea had said had left her shaken. She wasn’t sure how to react to the fact that, if what Lótea had implied was true, there was a whole community that was still loyal to the House of Fëanor here in Tirion and that she was nowhere near as alone as she had once believed.

But what did this mean? Were these elves simply happy to have her back, or did they want more from her? The thought of having to take on any sort of leading role among Maglor’s people left Alma feeling physically sick. She had returned to Tirion expecting to live out her days on her own in her and her husband’s old house, feared by the population of the city at large, spending her days with Fingon, a fellow disgraced Fëanorian lover. She did not expect there to be so many followers of Fëanor’s house wandering the streets, that Fingon would be pretending that Maedhros didn’t exist and that she would be living with her mother-in-law, because she was too afraid to enter her own abused, graffitied home.

Anger like Alma had not felt since she was reborn surged within her. How was this fair? It was _Maglor’s_ oath that led her to raise her sword in Alqualondë, she followed _Maglor_ when she lifted her torch to the ships across the Sea. She wasn’t even _alive_ to see the worst of his deeds done, and here she was taking slaps to the face because of her husband. 

She was outside Nerdanel’s house. However, Alma could think of nothing worse than stepping inside the accursed place. She didn’t know how Nerdanel survived being surrounded by relics of the past day-in, day-out, but she did know one thing. That she was not capable of doing the same.

She set Nerdanel’s bottles of wine down on the doorstep and turned slowly and deliberately away from the house. She was certain of where she was going, and was doing it now before this rage passed and she lost her nerve.

Her feet carried her there without her registering where she was going. She realised that she had been standing in the street in the street for a few moments before it occurred to her that she was truly here.

She turned around to face the music.

Alma stepped onto the grass, gasping as a sharp pain shot through her foot. She looked down to see that she had trod on a piece of glass, and that her small, soft shoe had been no match for it, leaving her foot bleeding onto the garden. It was the least of her worries, so she carried on. Upon approaching the door, Alma realised that it had been almost entirely beaten off its hinges, so anybody could have entered here. She briefly considered turning back because of this, but she chose not to in the end. 

It was her house after all.

So, she walked inside. The once elegant entrance hall was covered in dust and dirt, and most of her and Maglor’s paintings, vases and other expensive furnishings were either broken or missing. It seemed that the citizens of Tirion were not above looting the houses of traitorous scum, Alma thought wryly, imagining some of those who stared at her like she was dirt in the street having her crystal vase perched pride of place in their parlour. This amused her for some reason, and her laugh, which sounded cold and harsh, reverberated around the house. Alma flinched when she heard it. It did not sound like her at all.

She wandered slowly through the rest of the rooms, finding most of them in a similar state to the hall. The living room was covered in dirt, and the huge mirror that hung over the fireplace was broken, meaning Alma did not venture in for fear of having more glass embedded in her foot. The kitchen had been utterly destroyed, leaving all of the cabinets in splinters and the table little more than firewood. The silver was also missing, and Alma was certain it wasn’t the maid who took it.

It was in the largest room at the front of the house, the one in which her and Maglor entertained their many guests, that Alma found the most disturbing sight. Of course, the furnishings, like those in all the other rooms, were ruined, but that wasn’t what caught Alma’s eye. On the gable wall, hung a large portrait of her and her husband on their wedding day. It had been Alma’s favourite thing in the house for a very long time. The portrait showed her and Maglor, standing side by side with their arms intwined and Alma’s head almost resting on his chest, staring at the painter, slight smiles gracing their lips and their eyes alight with happiness. It should have been a pain to pose for an artist on her wedding day, but Alma was beyond caring at that point. She and Maglor were married, and that was all that mattered at the time.

Her wedding day was, is she was being truly honest been a bit of a disaster. Her mother and father were always distant, so they didn’t stay with her on the night before their only daughters wedding. Instead she stayed in Finwë’s palace, only a wing away from her soon to be husband. But the day didn’t go quite as planned.

She was woken at a truly ludicrous hour by Finrod, despite him only being Maglor’s half-cousin, who had brought her a fruit platter and a plate of cakes and seemed more excited than everyone else combined. After forcing less than half of these offerings down and watching Finrod devour the rest, she had began the long laborious process of getting ready on one’s wedding day. She had a small army of maids, beauticians and dressmakers to help, but was still relieved when Neuriel, Curufin’s betrothed, walked in for moral support. But this peace wasn’t to last, because the entirety of the House of Fëanor was staying a five minute walk away.

 _‘I LOOK LIKE SHIT!’ Caranthir_ had screamed, and the matter had not been helped by Curufin happily agreeing with him. Amrod was fighting with Fëanor about whether or not he had to wear his circlet, Maedhros was fretting about seating arrangements at the feast, Celegorm was complaining about how Amras had ruined his ‘perfect’ hair _(It’s fucking ruined! That’s right you better run, you little shit!)_ and in the middle of it all, Maglor was going on about how it was his wedding day, so everyone had to focus on him for once.

Alma had seriously considered running away whilst listening to this going on.

But, at the end of the day, it had all turned out alright, apart from Aredhel kissing Celegorm at the feast, much to both their father’s horror. And Alma thought that the peaceful look on her face perfectly conveyed that.

Now, though. Now, the painting was destroyed. It had clearly been knifed, leaving her and Maglor cut to ribbons, and Alma turned and left the room to avoid taking in any of the slurs that had been sprayed on and around the canvas.

She fled up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood from her injured foot behind her. 

Despite how hollow it was making her feel, Alma entered each room on the upper floors as well, surprised to find them in relatively good condition, when compared to the rest of the house. Maglor’s studio, the guest bedrooms, the master bedroom where her and Maglor slept, and the bathroom, weren’t that bad. She continued on, until she reached the small landing at the very top of the townhouse. Here there was a door, which, to Alma’s surprise, was still locked. It seemed that this smaller, locked room was not deemed valuable enough to raid. Or perhaps this was as far as anyone had got before somebody intervened on her house’s behalf. Either way, this room hadn’t been touched. 

Alma turned and headed back to the master bedroom. Once there, she lifted out the small key that was still, after all these years, hiding inconspicuously in her boudoir. She then headed back up the stairs, cradling the ornate little key in her palm. 

She stood before the locked white door once more, unsure what to do. Alma wasn’t sure her heart could take seeing, once more, what this room held. 

After deliberating for a long while, Alma decided that she definitely couldn’t face it, and turned around to descend the stairs, still clasping the key. On her way down the stairs, Alma noticed that they were stained with blood, and it took her a moment to realise it was her own. On looking down at her soaked shoe, she headed to the bathroom, determined to try and dress her foot. She was beginning to feel a bit faint and did not fancy passing out in her abandoned house.

  
An hour or so later, Alma was siting inelegantly on the bathroom floor, her foot rather messily dressed with a mouldy flannel and a strip of an old nightshirt. It was dark outside now, and she was physically and emotionally exhausted. She resisted her head on the cool tiles behind her, willing herself to cry, to feel anything but this numbness that had taken root within her. But she couldn’t. So, she rested her head on her knees and that was the last she remembered of that night.

_Blood._

_It dripped from her blade, it stuck to her skin, it formed clumps in her hair. It’s metallic smell invaded her nostrils, it crept into every crevice of her body. It was in her armour, it was under her nails, she could almost taste it._

_Smoke._

_It filled the air, clogging her lungs and leaving her gasping for breath._

_Screaming._

_Alma ignored the screams of those around her. For all she knew, they could have been her own. She was beyond caring at this point._

_Doom._

_She could practically sense it. How had they ever dared to hope? How could they outrun the inevitable?_

_Fingon._

_Was dead. Their valiant king, felled and ground into dust._

_Maedhros._

_She could not see him. She had lost sight of him hours ago. Or was it mere minutes? Alma was unsure. Time passed strangely when you were fighting for your life. She turned her eyes upwards desperately searching for light to break through the smog. It didn’t. But then again, why would it?_

_Maglor._

_She turned her gaze away from the ash-filled sky, to see a sight far more reassuring than the light of any star. Maglor was still fighting, still alive. Not beyond her reach. Alma said his name in her head. He tuned round, she must have said it aloud. Their eyes met and they stood, for the briefest of moments, oblivious to the chaos surrounding them. But it was not to last. Maglor’s eyes widened in horror, his lips forming a word._

_“Alma!”_

_Her name. Maglor was screaming her name. She tried to go to him, she tried so hard. But she was stopped by a deep, cold ache invading her bones. She fell to her knees, only then noticing what was wrong._

_A long rusted blade was imbedded in her stomach. The blade’s owner, a small, pathetic orc, was lying on the ground at her side. He’d been mortally wounded himself, she knew because she had been the one to drive her blade into his gut. It seemed that he had decided to use the very last ounce of strength he had to return the favour._

_Maglor._

_He was here now! Her husband held her close to him as she fell to the ground. He was upset, he was crying. Alma desperately wanted to comfort him, but she couldn’t form the words. She couldn’t do anything. She just lay there, as she realised the truth._

_Death._

_That was her fate. She would be stolen away from her husband. Maglor, who loved her, despite everything. She was glad he was here. She looked into his sad, kind eyes, and imagined they were together in Tirion once more. That they were surrounded by other joyful, beautiful elves, not soldiers defending their lord and his dying wife. That she was dancing, not dying._

_“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed,”_

_Their curse was close at hand. But Alma only shed one tear as she took her last breath. And it was for her husband, for she knew she may never see him again._

  
Alma shot up, breathing deeply. Dreaming about one’s own death would always, in her opinion, be disturbing. Once she was over the shock of her dream (she refused to call it a nightmare), Alma became aware of several things. Firstly, that she was still lying on the cold unforgiving tiles of her old bathroom, and secondly, her whole body ached. She grabbed the sink, pulling herself up whilst vowing to never sleep anywhere but a bed again. She was still holding the key in her hand, she realised as she stood. She decided to take it with her, rather than risk leaving it here.

She wandered out of the bathroom, taking in the house’s condition once more, this time in a more stable state of mind. It was still a sorry sight, but no longer as traumatic as it was the previous night. Nevertheless, she was happy to leave, though she planned to return soon enough. Alma was determined to live in this house once more, no matter how long it took. 

For now though, she would have to put up with Nerdanel.

As she walked back to Maglor’s childhood home, she received even more looks than usual, probably down to her tattered appearance. Her dark hair was a mess, her foot was bandaged with an old flannel and her dress was stained with blood. She then realised some may have believed she had committed another act of kinslaying in a back alley over the course of the night, and snorted at the thought. 

When she eventually came to Nerdanel’s house she stood outside for a few moments before going in, savouring her last moments of peace before confronting Nerdanel. Alma wasn’t sure if her absence would have even been noticed to begin with, so she wasn’t overly bothered about returning.

However, on opening the door, Alma was surprised by what she saw.

This time, it wasn’t a model wandering naked through the house, that would have been far less shocking. Instead it was Nerdanel, standing with her arms folded, staring angrily up at an elf who was no longer an excitable youth presenting a bride with cake on her wedding, but the crown prince of the Noldor.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, you pretty little princess!” Nerdanel was saying, “I have no idea where Alma has scurried off to.”

Finrod sighed, looking almost on the verge of tears. They’d clearly been at this for a while.

“I’ve been to see Findekanó already, and she wasn’t there either!” He groaned, “I really do need to speak to her, Nerdanel, I’ve a message from my father.”

Nerdanel’s eyes nearly rolled into her skull. She opened her mouth, preparing to insult Finrod again. She didn’t get the chance, though.

“What does your father want with me, Findaráto?” Alma said, delighting in the look of surprise on his face.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback at all is welcome!


	9. Teacups and Tremors

“Alma!” Finrod practically squeaked, “Thank goodness I’ve found you!”

“Well,” Nerdanel drawled, “I would say she found you, rather than you finding her, but I won’t obsess over the details.”

Alma glared at her mother-in-law, but gave her sweetest, most soulless smile to Finrod.

“You were saying something about a message from your father, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” he said, looking thrilled that there was someone in this house who didn’t wish him dead, “I have something I wish to discuss with you, Alma. And I was hoping we could do it, well ….. elsewhere.”

Alma glanced pointedly at Nerdanel, who was resting her hand on her chisel as though it was a sword, and decided that for the sake of Finrod’s nerves it would be better if they took this somewhere else, somewhere away from Fëanor’s fearsome wife. 

“Of course, Your Highness.” Alma replied, the words feeling like sand in her mouth. She hadn’t expected to struggle treating Finrod with the respect he was entitled to as the crown prince of the Noldor, but seeing him now, practically glowing with his bejewelled circlet glistening upon his golden mane, she felt something akin to resentment surging within her. This title was something that she had forever associated with Fëanor and Maedhros, even Maglor and Fingon to a lesser extent. It just seemed so strange to think of Finrod as the heir to the Noldorin throne, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to react. 

“Aren’t you going to sort that foot out before you go wandering around with the High King’s son?” Nerdanel asked, nodding towards Alma’s makeshift bandage.

“Oh, Alma! Whatever happened?” Finrod cried, his voice full of what seemed like genuine worry. She hadn’t expected that. In fact, she’d been expecting outright hostility from him after what Celegorm and Curufin did to him.

“Oh, nothing serious, Your Highness. I just stepped on some broken glass.” She replied, praying to whoever would listen that he would just drop it.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Findaráto,” Nerdanel said somewhat patronisingly, “She’ll be fine once we clean it up.”

 _“We?”_ Alma squawked, terrified of what concoctions Nerdanel would apply to her wound after the downright disgusting salve she had given her for the bruising caused by the slap she got from Elwing. However, before she could protest any further, Nerdanel had her wrist in an iron grip and was dragging her up the stairs.

They trudged along the landing for a few moments, Nerdanel still grasping her by the wrist, before her companion yanked open a door and pushed her into an elegant white bathroom.

“Sit down,” Nerdanel said, jerking her finger in the direction of the bath. Alma perched herself on the end of it and patiently awaited whatever onslaught was coming from Nerdanel.

The silence lasted for longer than expected as Nerdanel rifled through the bathroom cabinets, yanking out whatever materials she thought were necessary. 

“Nerdanel?” Alma eventually said, “ Is everything alright?”

Nerdanel spun around to face her.

“No! No it fucking isn’t!”

Alma was confused. “Is this about Findaráto? I assure you, I have no idea why he’s here. I’m just as clueless as you. In fact I-” 

“It’s not about Goldilocks down there either, Alma! It’s about you, what were you thinking?”

Nerdanel dropped to her knees in front of Alma and began inspecting her foot, despite Alma trying to yank it out of her grasp.

“What are talking about?” Alma replied, becoming more confused by the minute.

“Wandering around Tirion on your own at night? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

Alma scoffed, “I can look after myself, Nerdanel. I fought in some of the bloodiest battles in Elven history, for Eru’s sake, I’m sure that a walk around the city after dark isn’t going to kill me.”

Nerdanel buried her head in her hands. 

“You really haven’t been back very long, have you?” She said softly, dropping her gaze back to Alma’s injured foot.

“I don’t -I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” Alma stammered.

“If you are, or even if you were, a supporter of my husband and sons, Tirion can be a dangerous place Alma.”

Alma opened her mouth to speak, but Nerdanel raised a had to shush her.

“It’s common knowledge that, if you’re a known Fëanorian, you do not, under any circumstances, wander around Tirion alone at night.” Nerdanel sighed, and seemed to choose her next words carefully, “Many elves, mainly higher ranking soldiers, intimate servants and close acquaintances of Fëanáro and my sons have been known to be…”

Nerdanel stopped, as though she was unsure how to phrase what she was about to say next.

It wasn’t often that Maglor’s mother minced her words, Alma thought nervously. Nerdanel had reduced many an elf to tear with her scathing remarks, herself included. The only people’s feelings she ever seemed to pay any mind to were those of her sons.

“What, Nerdanel? What?” Alma pressed, her heart pounding, desperation entering her voice.

“There’s been several known… _attacks_ , shall we say.”

Alma’s heart dropped.

“Attacks?” She repeated faintly.

Nerdanel nodded gravely.

“Most recover fully from whatever injuries they sustain.” Nerdanel continued, “But some are left permanently injured. And you’re Makalaurë’s wife, so I can’t imagine you getting off lightly.”

Alma’s thoughts were racing. She thought of all the soldiers, servant and friends of Fëanor and his sons that she knew, how many names and faces had struck with her over the years. She thought of the elves Lótea had mentioned, who were still loyal to the House of Fëanor, and their loyalty suddenly seemed all the more priceless. The thought that they were still willing to put themselves in danger, even now, here in Valinor where everything was supposed to be safe, left her heart on the verge of bursting, out of love or fear, she did not know.

“Who would do such a thing?” She whispered more to herself than Nerdanel, but she received a reply anyway.

“There’s plenty with grievances against our people. Despite several investigations, which were all very halfhearted in my opinion, nobody knows if the culprits are acting alone or if there is some type of organisation.”

Alma sat there, speechless.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” She eventually said, as Nerdanel finished tying a surprisingly neat dressing on her foot.

“It didn’t occur to me. And I wasn’t expecting that a simple trip to the shops was going to turn into a night out. Oh, thanks for the wine by the way. Honestly, it was so good I didn’t even notice you were gone until Vára down there came knocking.”

Alma couldn’t help but laugh at that. Vára had been a rather famous entertainer back when she was a growing up in Tirion. She had risen to great heights partly due to her talent on stage, but mainly because of her looks. She was beautiful, tall and had a stunning mane of golden hair that the males of Tirion frequently begged her for a strand of. She was also, according to rumours, a bit of an airhead.

Considering this was also how her mother-in-law saw Finrod, Alma wasn’t surprised to hear the comparison be made.

“In all seriousness, Alma,” Nerdanel continued, “Where did you go last night?”

Alma froze, unsure of what to say. Should she admit to spending the night lying on the floor of her old house? For a moment she seriously did consider telling Nerdanel, but then decided against it. That was a story for another time.

“I’ll tell you when I return from wherever Findaráto is dragging me off to.” Was what she eventually settled on, and Nerdanel sent her a look that could be best described as exasperation before rolling her eyes and heading towards the door.

“I’ll tell your dear friend that you’ll be down in a moment,” she said, smirking to herself as she sauntered away.

Deciding that, for Finrod’s sake as well as hers, she should make this quick, Alma sprinted off down the hall to change out of her bloodstained dress.

“Right then,” Finrod said with forced cheer when she descended the stairs towards him, extending his arm towards her, “ shall we, my lady?”

Alma couldn’t help but smile as she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. Nobody had treated her with such chivalry since her rebirth, even Fingon had almost dragged her through the city by the hand, forever in a rush, even now when he had no real reason to be. She had forever complained about the many rules and regulations of polite society before she had left Valinor, but now that she had lived in a fortress full of soldiers with little regard for them for centuries, it felt almost comforting to fall back into old habits that seemed so distant during the brutality of the First Age.

However, she couldn’t help but notice how his muscles shook faintly beneath his skin. Surely he didn’t find Nerdanel that unnerving?

“I’ll see you later, Alma,” Nerdanel said, “And you must pop around more, Findaráto. I do so enjoy our conversations.”

She smiled evilly at them before turning around and wandering back into the huge house to finish whatever project she had abandoned, leaving a terrified looking Finrod in her wake.

“You know,” he said, walking slowly out of the door, “I never quite outgrew my childish fear of Aunt Nerdanel, you know.”

Alma choked back a most inelegant snort at hearing Nerdanel being referred to as ‘Aunt’. She couldn’t think of anybody less suited to the title.

“I can see that, Your Highness,” she replied, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice.

“Oh, do stop calling me that, Alma. It doesn’t seem right coming from anyone, especially you, being married to Kanafinwë and all.”

Alma blinked in surprise. She had expected Finrod to want to keep this as formal and distant as possible, not start to start asking her to drop all titles. 

“If that is what you wish, _Findaráto_.” 

He beamed at her. “Yes, yes it is.”

As they walked along, Alma took the opportunity to study her companion. Unlike many elves from Beleriand Alma had recognised, it seemed that Finrod had reverted back to how he used to dress before the Darkening, rather than carrying on as he learned to in the First Age. Admittedly, Finrod had changed far less than most, but he had still been forced to wear less glamorous clothing, less jewellery and his hair braided most of the time. Now though, he had once again donned robes of fine and seemingly endless material, every visible inch of him seemed to be covered in jewels (Alma couldn’t help but wonder if there was any jewellery in less visible places,) and his notorious mane of always fluffy golden hair flowed freely, the only restraint upon it being the circlet that rested upon his brow.

His face was still perfectly symmetrical, his features beautiful in an almost feminine way. She smirked to herself when she remembered an overheard conversation between Maedhros and Fingon on their cousin’s appearance. ‘“ _I don’t care, what he says Maitimo, he’s definitely shaping his eyebrows.” “I think you may be right. Surely nobody can have eyebrows like that without cosmetic interference?”’_

But she was inclined to agree with them. Nobody was blessed with eyebrows that perfect.

“So, what were you planning to discuss with me, Findaráto?” Alma said, noticing with growing annoyance that Finrod’s whole body was still shaking in her grasp. Was it her putting him off so?

Finrod grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a sensitive matter. Do you mind if we discuss this somewhere private?”

“Of course not,” Alma said sweetly, but in truth she was desperate to know what Finarfin wanted with her. Why did she have to be disturbed? Fingon was born a Prince of the Noldor, and he seemed to be left more or less alone by everybody but his parents. Why couldn’t the same luxury be afforded to her?

Unfortunately, before she could sink any further into her pit of self pity, Finrod was leading her into a small, almost deserted restaurant. He went and said a few words to an elleth whom Alma assumed was the owner, glancing anxiously at her the whole time as if he could not bear to let her hear what was being said. The owner smiled sympathetically at Finrod, patting his arm as one would a child, with a gentle ‘“Of course, Your Highness,”’. She then lead them to a private room at the top of a seemingly endless creaky wooden staircase. They were quickly situated at a small elegant table that had been placed by the huge bay window, with a magnificent view of the surrounding area of Tirion. Only when Finrod had ordered them both tea (“That’s alright with you isn’t it, Alma?”) and a rather disgusting amount of pastries were spread out over the table along with it, did he begin to speak.

“I know you must be anxious to hear my father’s message, Alma, so I’ll just get on with it.” He said, placing his shaking hands around one of the elegant little cups.

What was wrong with him?

“News of the… _encounter_ , between you and Lady Elwing has, as I’m sure you know, reached my father’s ears. And it has, as you can imagine left him very vexed, and desperate to find a solution.”

Alma couldn’t help but roll her eyes. If she could describe Finarfin in one word, ‘vexed’ would probably be her choice. It’s a pity he didn’t seem as eager to provide a solution for the Fëanorians being attacked as he did for a single slap from an angry elleth of his court.

“And what solution does your father have in mind, Findaráto?” Alma asked, her frustrations at all this uncertainty boiling over, and her voice sounding cruel even to her own ears.

Finrod, seemingly more nervous when he heard the steely edge to her voice, greatly struggled to form a reply. A few moments of silence filled only with the clinking of china passed before he gathered himself once more. Honestly, Alma was having a hard time envisioning Finrod dying a heroic death fighting a werewolf with his bare hands now that she noticed the very same hands shaking like leaves before her.

Perhaps he wasn’t as well-adjusted as she thought.

“W-well,” he stammered, and Alma, now feeling immensely sorry for him, reached out and placed her hands over his own, trying her best to calm the tremors that coursed through them.

“Sorry,” he gasped, trying to clench his hands into fists.

“Take your time,” Alma responded.

Finrod nodded bleakly at her. Alma wasn’t sure how to react to his behaviour. At the beginning, she had passed it off as nerves about seeing either herself or Nerdanel again. She couldn’t exactly blame him for being nervous around members of Fëanor’s house, given his history with Celegorm and Curufin. But now his actions were beginning to frighten her, as they were eerily reminiscent of how Maedhros had acted after his captivity, especially when he was feeling overwhelmed.

Eventually Finrod gathered himself enough to speak. Alma didn’t move her hands away though, they felt like her best hope of keeping him grounded. His face was flushed, Alma wasn’t certain if it was from exertion or mortification. He looked like a deer caught in the lamplight

“Father, well… he b-believes, that your coming to …” he paused, glancing fearfully at her, “to his court’s Midsummer Ball may help resolve m-matters.”

Alma stared at him.

“He wants me to come to his court?”

Finrod sent her a look, that essentially said not to ask him to say it again.

Alma wasn’t sure how long they sat their for. Her in shock at the bombshell Finrod had just dropped, and Finrod desperately trying to get his body to obey his command. The thought of going to court physically sickened Alma. It was full of snooty, gossiping aristocracy, and she knew would be the talk of the town. She wanted to talk to someone about it, to protest, but wasn’t sure if Finrod was fit for that at the moment. Why would Finarfin send him if he knew his son would end up I such a state.

“Is there any way I can arrange a private audience with your father?” Alma said, trying to keep her voice steady as possible.

“If there’s anything you wish to discuss,” Finrod swallowed audibly, “Atto said I could do it.”

Alma smiled gently, and clasped his hands tighter, pleased to find the tremors were slowly calming. “I know I could discuss it with you. But I really would like to see your father.”

Finrod gave a resigned nod.

“I’ll arrange for you to meet him on Friday afternoon. He normally holds audiences with nobility then.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, already starting to worry how it was going to go.

Alma sighed and stared out the window at Tirion gleaming in the evening light. It truly was a sight for sore eyes. All she wanted to do was go and wander around the streets like she used to, for hours upon and hours. And theoretically, she still could, there was a few hours left before darkness would descend on the city and she would, according to Nerdanel, have to fear for her life. But for now she had different priorities.

“Where do you live, Findaráto?” She inquired, hoping she didn’t sound too pushy.

“My wife and I live but a few streets away,” Finrod replied skeptically, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m going to walk home with you,” Alma said, “Once we pay what we owe here, that is.”

Finrod shook his head violently, “No, I will escort you back to Nerdanel’s house. It is only proper.”

“I’m not returning to Nerdanel’s house until later this evening,” Alma placated, “I’m visiting a friend first and foremost.”

Finrod stared miserably at her, his face becoming red once more. 

“I’m not weak, Alma. I know that I-” he trailed off, lost as to how to continue.

“I don’t think you’re weak, Findaráto, we all suffered greatly across the Sea, and suffering affects us all in different ways.”

He ignored her, and rose from his seat, with her following his lead.

“We do not need to settle a bill here. My father contacted the owner earlier, it was all taken care of.”

“How kind of him,” Alma said, but inside she was unsure of what to make of the whole set up.

“We’ll make a move then,” Finrod said, taking an unsteady step forward and looking rather shaken.

“Are you not going to take my arm again?” Alma said, hoping to hide her intention of making sure he didn’t fall flat on his face behind a thin veil of chivalry.

Finrod, she could tell by the expression on his face, new exactly what she was doing, but he held out his arm for her anyway, and the two of them made their way down the rickety staircase again. When they reached the bottom, they were immediately set upon by the owner, who fussed around them on their way out. Alma had a feeling that this elleth knew more about Finrod’s condition than she did.

Once they finally made it outside, Finrod lifted a shaky hand to point down the street.

“Amarië and I live in this direction.”

Alma nodded, and they set off towards Finrod’s home.

“I am very happy to hear of you and Amarië’s marriage,” she said, surprised that she actually meant it.

“I am very happy about the matter as well,” Finrod chuckled, his breathing slightly laboured despite their slow pace, “I am lucky to have her.”

Alma smiled at him, and tightened her grip on his arm. At that moment all she could think of was her own husband, and how far away he was, and how much she missed him. She hoped he wasn’t hurt, or scared. She hoped he would find his way back to her.

Only a few minutes later, Finrod pointed out his house among the mirage of elegance and wealth. It was a large, white townhouse, that stood even taller than her own a few miles away. She almost felt jealous looking at it.

They were hardly at the doorstep, when the door was wrenched open and the tiny figure that was Amarië popped out like a jack-in-the-box.

“Oh, Ingoldo! You took longer than expected! I’ve been worried sick.”

She flowed elegantly towards them, and Alma let go of Finrod, happy that he was in safe hands. Amarië quickly slid her arm around his waist, before finally turning to Alma.

“Lady Alma. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Alma curtsied. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you, my Princess.”

Amarië smiled, though Alma was unsure if it was genuine. She shooed her husband into the house as soon as he had said his goodbyes to Alma, promising to organise a meeting with his father.

Once they were alone, Amarië placed a hand on Alma’s shoulder.

“Thank you for coming back with him.”

“It was no problem.” Alma replied, and though she had a hundred questions, she knew Amarië was not the person she needed to ask, “But I must get on now. I have somebody I need to see.”

Amarië nodded, and waved Alma off as she headed to the one person she was hoping could tell her everything she wanted to know.


	10. A Sparkling Kitchen and its’ Inhabitants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alma has questions. Luckily, Lótea has answers.

Lótea stood at the wash basin in her small kitchen. Her kitchen was, as usual, spotless. Being a servant had that affect. It sparkled like the diamonds she walked past in the windows of Tirion’s jewellers, the jewels that reminded her of ages long past, when she served a House that killed and died for some jewels that, to Lótea, were no different than any others. She could never comprehend why they cared so much for those particular jewels, when they had intricate boxes overflowing with necklaces, rings, hair ornaments and circlets that were probably worth more than her life a hundred times over. She had asked her lord one day, when she was clasping a fine necklace of emeralds around his neck, how he could want for anything. And she’ll never forget what he said in return.

“ _You would not understand, Lótea.” He said in that grave voice of his, “Try me,” she replied, pulling stray strands of his fiery hair from beneath the fine silver chain._  
 _“It is not about monetary worth, penneth,” she rolled her eyes, she was not a child, “It is about… something more. It is about doing what my father wanted, what he came here to do.”_  
 _Lótea sighed at that. It was to her, a feeble excuse._  
 _She finished dressing Maedhros in silence, something she didn’t normally allow to happen. She knew that he was humiliated enough as it was, not being able to even braid his hair, or tie his shoes, so she did her best to distract him. But tonight was not the time for chat, not when **he** was waiting down the stairs, ready to charm her lord’s socks off._  
 _As he walked towards the door, the mask he wore in public sliding onto his face, Lótea spoke once more._  
 _“You deserve better my lord. And you know it is not your oath of which I speak.”_  
 _He ignored her, as always._

  
Now though, Lótea has a different lord, and a lady as well. They do not confide in her, in fact, they ignore her instead. She does not handle their jewels, or brush their hair. Instead she scrubs the floor until her knees and back ache, and her hands blister. She slaves over the washing and burns herself on the iron, and she has never received even a nod of thanks. However, her new job has one advantage. She hovers in the background of their high teas, and their royal audiences, watches as Tirion’s high and mighty parade through the rooms she meticulously cleans, and she listens.

The King confides his concerns to her lord, he is one of his closest advisors after all. And they say more than even Lady Alma used to in front of a servant. She knows of everything before anyone else, and she waits for good news.

She doesn’t care about how traumatised the King’s eldest son is after his return to Valinor, she cares even less about his brothers and cousins, but she does care about Lady Neuriel, and Lady Alma after that.

She was furious when Neuriel deserted her husband’s family and their people, and could hardly contain herself when she heard the news. She wanted to scream, to find Curufin’s wife and swing her around by her perfect, ever-silky dark hair, then curse her to the Void. 

Because of Neuriel, Lótea didn’t have much faith in Lady Alma, as she always thought Maglor’s wife was the weaker of the two. But Eru, was she ever more happy to be wrong. She practically sprinted through Tirion’s streets that evening, desperate to tell her brother her news. Once in the house, she had found him in his usual spot, and spoke of her news with uncontainable emotion. Marek, however, spoiled her fun as usual. Her brother said that just because Alma hadn’t forsaken her husband, didn’t mean she would want anything to do with his followers, or help them in any way. Lótea squared her shoulders, and told him that, by hook or by crook, she would suss out Alma’s position.

When she managed this, it was a complete coincidence. Alma had just wandered past when she was leaving her work, acting like she had all the time in the world, despite the gathering darkness, and the horrible dangers that people like them faced when the sun set. Lótea, after greeting Alma in as nonchalant a manner that she could manage, hurried down the steps and began her subtle interrogation. 

And it seemed, for once, that there was some truth in Tirion’s notorious rumour mill. Alma was, in fact, living with Nerdanel, as well as recovering from a public assault by Elwing, after making her first public appearance with Fingon, of all people. 

Lótea scrunched up her nose in disgust. She’s never liked Fingon, not from the moment she met him. She was certain that the feeling was mutual.

Lótea had first met Fingon on the shores of Lake Mirthrim. She had been scurrying around her Lord’s rooms (well, he was King then) lifting washing, keeping everything at peak cleanliness for the healers. She was told that she would continue to manage Maedhros’ washing, ironing, some of his basic personal care and his room’s general maintenance throughout his recovery, and afterwards if, in Maglor’s words, he found her a ‘cheering and positive presence’. She wasn’t entirely sure why Lord Maglor had chosen her for that role, when she was so young and relatively inexperienced, but she was almost certain that it was to do with her brother. Marek had always described her as chatty and irritatingly positive, and since her brother was Maglor’s stable buck at the time, there’s a good chance that his opinion on her might have found its way to the ears of Fëanor’s second son. From that day on, she’d served Maedhros, growing more talkative as time passed and she grew more comfortable in his presence. He was the only person she knew who managed to be intimidating from their sickbed.

She had only been in her new position four weeks when she met Fingon. She’d laid down the mountainous basket of washing that felt like it had been attached to her hip all day in order to stop and talk to Maedhros for a few minutes. He’d been surprisingly upbeat that morning, and she decided to make the most of it. However, they were interrupted by the elf who would one day become the bane of Lótea’s existence.

Fingon had burst into the room with more extravagance than even Maglor could manage, followed closely by Caranthir, who looked even more furious than usual. He launched himself onto the chair at Maedhros’ bedside, before beginning a long-winded tale about the hardships he had endured since he last visited. Lótea rolled her eyes, before heaving her washing back up and making a quick exit. 

When she returned later that day, Fingon was gone, leaving her lord utterly exhausted, on the verge of tears and already pining. Lótea had, at the time, assumed Maedhros was just vulnerable and still recovering, but soon found out that wasn’t the case. Nobody could upset Maedhros like Fingon, but, Lótea couldn’t hate him entirely, because he made Lord Maedhros happy, and eased his pain. That meant an awful lot to Lótea. 

It’s just a pity Fingon never realised the influence he had.

Lótea was dragged from her thoughts by a knock on the door.

She sighed, chucking her cloth into the washbasin and praying it wasn’t her next door neighbour, who Lótea hated with a fierce passion. She was an insufferable old bat, who thought she was the bee’s knees because she owned a restaurant frequented by the King and his family on the rare occasions they visited the largely Fëanorian part of the city. She had been a follower of Fingolfin and then Fingon, and she and Lótea had frequently engaged in petty domestic disputes when they were working together during Maedhros’ visits to Fingon’s household. 

She yanked the door open, her most disgusted expression prepared, but was surprised by what she found.

Alma stood on the doorway, with a vaguely nervous look on her face. She smiled on seeing Lótea, though it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Lótea, I hope I’m not intruding.” She said, every inch the perfect, polite princess. 

Lótea raised an eyebrow. It seemed absurd that she was so pleasant and false, when Lótea had watched her behead orcs and hardly even flinch.

“Of course not, my Lady,” she said, stepping aside, “come in.”

Alma nodded gratefully, before stepping into Lótea’s humble home.

As she shut the door behind Maglor’s wife, Lótea couldn’t help but wonder what had urged her to come and visit her. She was certain she’d find out soon enough. She knew when people wanted to talk, and Alma looked fit to explode.

Once she had them both seated with steaming mugs (not teacups. Alma may have been a princess, but Lótea wouldn’t pull out the teacups if Manwë himself was in her kitchen), Lótea finally asked Alma what she wanted from her.

So began Alma’s rather long-winded tale of all that had happened to her over the past day. Apparently she visited her and Maglor’s old house, and Lótea cringed on hearing the state it was in. After finding out the dangers of life as a high profile follower of Fëanor after the sun set, not to mention a rather traumatic afternoon tea with Finrod and subsequent invitation to the Midsummer Ball and scheduled meeting with Finarfin, Alma looked fittingly distraught and had come to Lótea with, as she put it, ‘a few questions’. 

“Ask away,” Lótea said. After all, what choice did she have?

Alma didn’t waste any time.

“How many people have been injured in these attacks?” She said, “Do you know any of them?”

Lótea sighed, rubbing her temples. She knew so many people who’d been hurt. Even those closest to her. But Alma didn’t need to know about her brother. Not yet. 

“As far as I know, roughly fifty, with about ten to fifteen what I would consider to be seriously injured.” She thought of Marek, and shivered.

When she looked up once more, Alma had her head in her hands.

“Lady Alma?”

Alma looked up, an empty look in her icy blue eyes. It took her a moment to gather her wits before she replied, “I’m fine Lótea. And please, just call me Alma. We’re past niceties.”

Lótea nodded, knowing deep down that she couldn’t possibly call her by only her first name, and listened patiently to Alma’s inquiries, about the frequency and location of attacks, or the action that was taken by the law enforcement. She seemed appalled, much to Lótea’s satisfaction. It was about time somebody took notice of their plight. Lady Neuriel had deserted her husband and his people entirely, Nerdanel was a recluse who appeared only sparingly to terrify her neighbours and relatives and Fingon ignored the followers of Maedhros entirely. Lótea couldn’t say she was surprised, but she was still disappointed. She had childishly hoped he would come through for Maedhros in death where he hadn’t in his life, but it seemed he had no intention of doing so.

“I’m afraid I must move on from this topic, Lótea. But I promise I will mention it to the King on Friday.”

“Really?” Lótea spluttered, not quite believing that some action was actually about to be taken.

“Really,” Alma replied, “I simply cannot let this stand.”

Lótea nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Perhaps this truly was a turning point.

“But, I’m afraid I’m not done with you yet, Lótea,” Alma said, “Can you tell me anything about Findaráto? About what’s happened since his return?”

Lótea raised an eyebrow. This was a long story.

“Findaráto was the first elf reborn on these shores. Apparently the Valar knew he was nowhere near ready for rebirth, but they were desperate to boost moral in the lead up to the War of Wrath and believed he would recover eventually. The problem is, he hasn’t, but the people haven’t been told this-“

“How have you come about this information then, Lótea?” Alma said, her voice rife with suspicion.

“I work for one of the King’s closest advisors, my lady. Let’s just say he brings his work home with him.”

Alma nodded slowly. “What else?”

“He’s traumatised. Nightmares, anxiety, physical problems and weakness, he’s not the elf he once was, Lady Alma. Honestly, he struggles far more than even Lord Maedhros did after his captivity from the sounds of things.”

“Poor little thing.” Alma said, her voice dripping with an honestly disgusting amount of pity. Lótea had to force herself not to gag. 

“He’s hardly hard done by, Lady Alma. He’s got his beautiful wife, his whole family and a small army of servants doting on him. He’ll live.”

“That’s hardly the point, Lótea. I was with him today, and it was honestly pitiful.”

“I agree, really I do,” Lótea said, “and while Findaráto may be the worst off of the reborn, there are many who are far from fit and well, especially among our people, who don’t have a huge, loving support network. Yet I don’t see anybody fawning over them.”

“What becomes of them?” Alma whispered.

“There’s homes that take them in, who look after them until they’re either well enough to live independently, or permanently if they aren’t showing any signs of recovery.”

“Do they have no families? No friends willing to care for them?”

Lótea wrung her hands, “Many of them travelled to Beleriand alone, and their family who remained have disowned them for their crimes at the Kinslayings, and many more are the only ones from their families to be reborn as of yet.”

Alma looked, if possible, even more upset than when she arrived. Deciding to try her hand at reassurances, despite her lack of skill in that particular area, Lótea spoke once more.

“They’re only the minority of the reborn, Lady Alma. Most of us are perfectly capable of looking after ourselves when we return.”

Maglor’s wife nodded thoughtfully.

“Who manages these ‘homes’ that house these elves, Lótea?” She asked after a moment.

“Anybody who is willing and approved by the head of their local district.” Lótea responded, gathering her and Alma’s empty mugs and carrying them towards the sink, “It’s not like that’s a very stringent process, though. The district councils will approve practically anyone, as hardly anybody wants to take such a responsibility on.”

Alma didn’t reply.

Lótea began to wash the dishes, desperate to have something to do. A lifetime of servitude made sitting idle difficult, after all. She wondered if her brother could hear her and Alma’s conversation from upstairs. She hoped so, as she was desperate to discuss the evenings events with him and didn’t fancy relaying the whole conversation back.

“I best be on my way Lótea,” Alma said suddenly, “It’s growing dark.”

Lótea glanced out the window at the setting sun. 

“Will you be alright to walk home alone, my lady? I can fetch my neighbour to walk you home if you like, he’s one of Lord Caranthir’s followers.”

“No. Definitely not.” Alma said, “I’ll be perfectly alright on my own. The light is not yet gone.”

“If you’re sure, my lady.”

“Definitely.” She replied, “And, Lótea? I haven’t forgotten about what I said. I’ll be having words with Arafinwë about what’s been happening to our people.”

Lótea turned to face Alma once more. She took in her voluminous, slightly frizzy dark hair, her soft, round face and huge blue eyes, suddenly feeling an overwhelming fondness for her lord’s sister-in-law. 

“Thank you.” She croaked, not trusting herself to say more.

Alma saw herself out. 

Lótea stood at her kitchen sink once more, staring at the solitary little figure scuttling up the street in the direction of Nerdanel’s house, feeling more hope than she had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback is welcome!


End file.
